9/4/2004
I met him through #Faith. He was an #HBCU radio DJ that did parties for #BGLO gigs on the weekends. My #sorority sister, Faith, mentioned he was very attractive and she was interested in him.
I didn’t think much of it because the majority of my friends have completely different tastes in men. Her stating the man was attractive made me think he probably wasn’t my type.
Being “attractive” was truly relative. However, this changed at our first meeting.
It was an AKA party weekend and I had to make sure he was situated and had access to the party room on campus. Faith didn’t get off work that night until 6:00 pm and, the younger sorors were busy running errands and getting their hair and nails done for the evening.
Although I was no longer a chapter member, I agreed to be the contact for the DJ and his crew. After I got off work, I was responsible to do a quick check-in at the venue with the DJ, then I'd go home and get dressed for the nights opening events.
“Hey,” I said to the slim man with his back to me. He was adjusting cords and CDs.
“Faith says you’re staying with us this weekend.”
He looked up at me as I extended my hand as a greeting (not the expected Alpha/AKA hug). When he looked at me, I became stuck. This man was gorgeous, I mean MODEL GORGEOUS, even wearing his thick nerdy bifocals. His hair was short and wavy curly, his large eyes left me speechless and flushed. They appeared innocent like my favorite teddy bear. His lips were plump and I bet soft like a warm cookie.
As his deep voice introduced himself, my hand mysteriously wandered up to my hair, pulling back any locs that might have fallen out of place.
“You must be the older roommate?”
“Yeah,” I laughed, “I’m her prophyte.”
We stood there looking at each other for what felt like an extended second.
Nervously, breaking the silence, I said, “Here’s the address if you guys want to freshen up before the party,” I wrote my address on a napkin for him and headed to my car.
“Girl, yes!! Your DJ friend is a cutie,” I texted Faith before starting my car to head home.
*****
It wasn’t until the following December that I noticed that he was noticing me.
“You leaving?” I asked him as I came down the stairs in my after-party clothes.
He was in Kirksville DJing for his fraternity’s Founders’ Day weekend and Faith insisted we have an after-party at our townhouse.
I’ll be honest, I did enjoy having him and his business partner stay with us for weekends. It was pretty fun, the jokes and puns were endless. It was nice to have some professional Black men around to just chill with no expectations. Seeing him leave on that Saturday-early-Sunday morning shocked me. For some reason knowing he was leaving made me feel a certain kind of way. As if I expected something to happen between us at the after-party.
That extended pause happened again before he answered. He looked like he didn’t want to go but answered, “Yeah, I have to speak at my church tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well, ya’ll drive safely,” I said before hugging him goodbye.
I didn’t think much of it. No man that gorgeous wanted me. And besides, he was Faith’s guy.
April 2004
I often refer to myself as a living oxymoron. As a person that always considered herself unattractive and overweight, I always tend to be attracted to the prettiest men. Men that can pass for a model, you know, the pretty boy type. "Pretty boys" have always been my preference. Not the typical ones with light eyes, light-skin, and wavy hair were never me. But, honey, a man with beautiful dark skin, dresses clean, and perfectly manicured hands always make my eyebrow raise and urge my eye to wink.
You know those men I’m talking about? Suave men who spend more than a little more time in the mirror always excite me. However, I was always too shy to approach a man like that. Honestly, I didn’t know how or if I was cute enough to attract them. At least I thought like that at 25 years old.
As I lost weight my confidence increased but, not enough to think the DJ considered me. No man as hot as he was would never consider me as more than a friend. I wasn’t sassy or quick on my feet like my girlfriends. Despite my height, I always tried my best to stay hidden behind the shadows of my beautiful curvy friends. Ever since my teenage years, wearing eyeliner was my only defense and attempt to appear appealing.
It was almost time to leave for the neophyte ceremony that perfect Spring day in Missouri. As I applied a deep brown foundation on my face that wasn’t as chubby as it was last January, the DJ entered my half bathroom with me. Initially, he sat on the closed toilet seat.
He watched me, intensely observing me and unknowingly making me nervously giddy like a little girl meeting her celebrity crush. Then he got up after I applied my last stoke of mascara to my lashes and said, “Scoot over,” playfully moving me by my hips so we could share the mirror.
Excitement ran through my spine from his light touch. His hands landed perfectly on my hips as they always did when we hugged during his weekend visits. A man hadn’t touched me like that since my high school days, nine years ago.
“Crystal, you are beautiful,” he said while looking at my reflection that stared at him as he spoke.
“I’m ok,” I responded hoping to laugh it off.
“You are more than ok. You’re sexy as hell and just beautiful.”
“I’m too mannish to be sexy.”
“Yeah, ok. You are my diamond in the rough. My sexy diamond in the rough,” he stared at me daring me to argue his opinion.
I laughed nervously. I was unsure if he understood the compliment was backward. Being compared to a diamond made me look at my face again and wonder what he saw that I didn’t.
“You try to hide it, but I see right through you,” He kissed my cheek and walked out of the bathroom.
June 2005
“You have your Master’s?” asked the DJ.
He saw my degree laying on top of the TV in my bedroom. It came in the mail last week.
“Yeah, I have a M.F.A. in Creative Writing.”
“So, you’re a writer? Where’s the book?”
I paused and looked at the cream carpet.
“It’s not finished.”
“Why not?”
I was uncomfortable talking about it. I protected my books like a new mom would her two-week-old baby. My fiction was my baby and I didn’t want anyone speaking poorly about it.
“It’s not finished.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Yes, In the Company of Women.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, I got it from a poem by my soror, Sonia Sanchez,” I said with a weak attempt to change the subject from me and my writing.
“When you gonna finish it?”
“Hopefully, soon.”
Then I kissed him, knowing that would change the subject.
*Historically Black Colleges & Universities **Black Greek Letter Organizations
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